


Synaesthesia

by benedictcumberlongpond



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictcumberlongpond/pseuds/benedictcumberlongpond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sensation in which the brain confuses senses and sensations are communicated differently to the brain, so sounds may be tasted, or colours may be heard. The writer, Castiel Novak, managed to use his synaesthesia for the purpose of his writing, even though seeing sounds as vivid hallucinations wasn’t always his idea of fun. Especially when the new waiter at his favourite coffee shop makes him see the most scintillating things with that damn voice of his. Destiel AU, oneshot, slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synaesthesia

**Author's Note:**

> Synaesthesia: The sensation in which senses are communicated differently to the brain, colours heard as sounds, or noises seen as visual cues. Occurs at a young age when the brain is forming neural pathways and basically switches around a few things.  
> A/N: I spent all day reading Destiel fanfiction instead of doing my Psychology homework, and then when I went to do my Psychology homework, I stumbled across Synaesthesia. Then this happened. I’m only using the general idea of synaesthesia, I’m not actually sure what it’s like and this story is all fictional speculation for the purpose of pornography which I hope you will enjoy. If you have synaesthesia and I have butchered this in any way, please let me know. I don’t want to cause offense; I only want Dean and Cas to have lots of sex in lots of different contexts. Onwards.

Black coal was literally spewing from the homeless man’s mouth.

Sprays of cinders were throwing themselves into the air and then settling on his legs, outstretched in front of him. Castiel might have stopped to watch, perhaps, if this wasn’t an entirely normal thing for him. Instead he just frowned, the corners of his mouth pulling down as he delved into his pocket to retrieve a note pad, jotting down the words ‘black coal’ and then replacing it in the trench coat he wore.

His world, his agent had once written when attempting to ‘sell’ his book to another publisher, was a dark place. It was a jungle of visceral imagery, a cacophony of visual cues, a bloodbath of mess, a –

“There’s actually lint coming out of your mouth right now,” Castiel had interrupted. “It’s just puffing out and… landing on the desk.”

His agent, Anna, had given him a meaningful look, as if to say _‘this is exactly what I’m talking about’._

Castiel rolled his eyes at the memory, it was hard enough living with a full blown dose of the crazies dubbed ‘Synaesthesia’ by a man with a degree and a fountain pen - but then finding that his talent was putting all this craziness into writing only to discover the sole difference would be that he would go from poor and crazy, to slightly more wealthy and crazy. Well, that was the real kicker.

At least he could take solace in a walk down to his favorite coffee shop.

He paused when a woman shouting on the phone passed him, effectively vomiting blood into his path.

“Hm.” He managed, turning into the building he had become familiar with and smiling at the man behind the counter.

Sam was made of sunshine. He was six ft four with tan skin and too much upper body strength for his own good, his eye color was undefinable and his hair got longer every time Castiel saw it, now gone beyond the confines of his ridiculously defined jaw bone.

And yes, Castiel had a crush on him for all of about two seconds. Then he had opened his mouth, and colors had poured out that had been so pure and so beautiful that Castiel knew he didn’t deserve such a wholesome, kind, _decidedly heterosexual,_ person.

“Castiel!” Sam greeted, a fluttering of baby blue light swirling in the air in front of him. “The usual?”

“Thank you, Sam.” Castiel replied, trying to keep the gruff tone out of his gravelly voice.

“No problems! Hey, you’ll have to meet our new waiter today-”

After Castiel had accidentally drunkenly let slip that he thought Sam was attractive, Sam had been on some kind of witch hunt for a boyfriend for him. Castiel wanted to tell him that actually he wasn’t entirely gay – more of the fact he didn’t give two shits about what gender you were as long as you didn’t spew black goo on me when I talk to you – and also that meeting new people made Castiel very uncomfortable.

“That’s ok Sam.”

“Oh,” the little disappointed noise made the blue light in front of him plummet, like Castiel had just shot a miniature fairy right in front of Sam’s eyes.

Castiel sighed, and the noise puffed out in front of him like an irritated white cloud.

“You can send him over with my drink, if you’d really like.” Castiel finally said, and he was glad Sam didn’t have Synaesthesia, because those words were literally dripping dark droplets of disdain all over the plush carpet of the coffee shop.

“Thanks, Castiel.” The blue light perked up and resumed its fluttering.

Castiel made his way to his favorite table, forcing himself not to dodge his hallucinations as he stepped over sharply barbed insults or gooey pink endearments, the conversations leaving debris all over the pathway to his comfy leather settee.

It was only a few moments later that the new waiter approached his table.

And ok, yes. He was ridiculously attractive.

Eyes so green they looked like contacts, lightly freckled skin that looked gold in the light, plush lips that almost made Castiel wince for the fear of what might come out of them when they inevitably opened.

“Long black two sugars?” he said, his voice was low and rough and Castiel had to hold back a whimper at what that noise elicited. It was more than a visual cue, it was a _promise._

It was oil and whiskey, leather and the rumble of a car. It manifested itself as dark smoke that shimmered intimately around them, caressing against his face and making shapes that made Castiel’s face heat.

“Thanks,” he squeaked, a little puff of cloud that was immediately overwhelmed by the remaining smoke.

“Sam told me I had to meet you, apparently I’ve read one of your books?” he asked, the smoke sliding out from in between those lips sensuously, making his eyes shimmer. The smoke clogged the air, making it hard for Castiel to reply.

“I’m… uh. Castiel. Castiel Novak.” He offered.

“Sorry, can’t say I remember.” He frowned, the smoke forming a little question mark in front of his face. Suddenly, it cleared and the man let out a little noise of understanding, the question mark blowing away. “Wait, are you the one who describes colors as sounds?”

“Other way ‘round.” Castiel shrugged, breathing in the smoke and tasting the spicy flavor back in his throat. He hummed at the intrusion.

“That’s awesome. I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Dean.” Castiel nodded, the greeting had manifested in denser smoke that was wrapping around his hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise Castiel. Can I call you Cas?”

He wanted to say no, but his own name escaping that mouth in puffs of sultry, dark, smoke was far too much to bear.

“Sure.” He said instead, and his own voice had taken on a different quality, so the happy puffs of white had become a thin streak of smoke that entwined with Dean’s and made Castiel have to look away at the intimacy of it.

“Enjoy your coffee,” he said, making his exit. The remaining smoke cupped Castiel’s face, lingering for a second before passing on, a last lick against his cheekbone making his breath hitch.

“Thanks,” he breathed out, the word leaving him in grasping fingers that tried to pull Dean back to his table, fruitlessly.

xXx

The next day found Castiel in the same chair, eagerly watching as Dean went about his duties. The puffy, protective clouds of grey that formed whenever he was talking to Sam, the pleasant, sugary words spoken to customers, and then the dark, sinuous smoke that curled around Castiel every time he passed the table and would mutter a short ‘hello’, or ‘how is your coffee?’

At the moment he was gone, though, off on his lunch break. Cas was sitting next to his cooling cup of caffeine, his notepad on the table as he scrawled out new ideas for a book that was going to probably lack heart, but probably pay for his bills for the next few years. And his coffees.

“New story?” and if he didn’t recognize the voice, the telltale curl of warm, dark air that manifested around his wrist was enough of a giveaway about who had joined him at the table.

Cas smiled at Dean, wanting to spill it all out. _Yes,_ he would say, _you inspired me with your explicit sexuality to write a story about strange emotions and feelings and all kinds of things, would you like to come back to my apartment and read the rest of it and then maybe you could inspire me some more?_

Droplets of unsaid words were beginning to trail down his chin and drip into his lap, so he figured he better reply. “Yes, it’s… something quite recent that… inspired me.” Cas said, and it came out of his mouth in awkward, sloppy gushes of clear water that soaked through his jacket.

“Can’t wait to see it on the shelves,” Dean replied, the heat of his response evaporating the water and leaving Cas’ skin scorching. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?”

“Not at all.” Cas smiled. “It’s nice to have some company.”

_Great, now you sound like a loser._

Dean was laughing, though, and it made Cas laugh lightly as well, the combined smoke eventually settling over the table like fog.

“How come you’re always on your own?” Dean asked, and Cas froze slightly.

“Oh,” he began, but then Dean was cutting him off, the words pushing passed his exhalation.

“God, I didn’t mean it like- what I was trying to say is… oh god.” Dean laughed then, and his awkward words were swept away on the cloud of his chuckle. “Don’t you have someone to get coffee with? Wife? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“No,” Cas smiled awkwardly. “My condition makes people generally… uncomfortable.” He explained

“Condition?” Dean asked, eyes widening.

“How my books are written are…” Cas sighed, he hated this explanation, usually ending with a pitying look. “Based on a condition I have. Synaesthesia. I thought you might have, I mean, I thought Sam told you.”

“Synaesthesia?” Dean tripped over the vowels in the word, puffs of agitated smoke appearing in front of his face.

“I see sounds.” Cas explained quickly. “When people talk, I see the words as… things.”

Dean’s mouth quirked downwards in a short frown, considering, before bursting out in a smile.

“How do my words look?” He asked, still grinning.

Cas hesitated before answering. “Black smoke, usually. But it changes.”

“What about Sam’s?”

“Lights. Colorful, usually kind of innocent.”

“Yours?”

That made Cas pause. No one usually asked him about his words.

“Uh… different kinds of water. Like, fog or mist sometimes. Water sometimes. Ice, when I’m angry.” Cas explained quickly.

“What about right now?” Dean asked, and the black smoke was curling around his words and pressing slightly, combining.

“White… fog.” Cas said, and those two words came out in two short puffs that were immediately swallowed by Dean’s answering,

“Cool.”

xXx

Castiel didn’t believe in fate.

He didn’t believe in many things, these days.

But God damn it all, he had _needed_ more cereal. And _for the love of Jesus,_ the shop down the road wasn’t open after nine p.m., and it was ten p.m., so he _had_ needed to walk an extra block in order to obtain said cereal.

And _sweet virgin Mary_ the supermarket he had stumbled in to just happened to be the one that not only stocked cereal, but also stocked things like milk, eggs and bread.

Also known as, things that were currently in Dean’s trolley.

Because Dean was here.

Dean was in the supermarket at the same time as Castiel, in the aisle next to him, carefully staring at two brands of peanut butter and frowning, little puffs of considerate grey smoke floating above the aisles and landing in palpable puddles of dark liquid where Castiel was standing, swearing to himself and clutching his box of cereal.

He couldn’t say hello. Not when he was wearing sweat pants and had bare feet, glasses askew on his face, hair looking only god knows how, dressed how it was appropriate to be dressed when you were just walking a few blocks to buy some _goddamn cereal._

“Cas?” Dean’s voice was rich and somewhat amused, coming from the end of the aisle where he had just appeared, having apparently chosen his brand of peanut butter and moved on to the next aisle.

“Dean.” Cas replied, his breath leaving him in a great gust that had a few shards of ice in it.

“What a coincidence, hey?” he said, smiling at him.

“Right,” Cas said, still frozen in place because he was dressed like a goddamn homeless person and Dean looked like he could be a model for supermarkets or something.

“Cereal, right?” Dean commented, close enough how that the dark smoke could wash over Cas’ features. “Awesome.”

“Yeah,” Cas finally said, relaxing slightly. “Uh… dinner.” He said with a weak shrug.

“Dude, are you kidding?” Dean asked, a wide grin on his face. “Cereal for dinner, ten o' clock on a Friday?”

Castiel shrugged, wondering vaguely if he should be running and hiding and trying to work out a way to never come to this supermarket ever again. Or maybe come here again wearing a suit, fanning himself with wads of cash so that Dean knew that Castiel was actually a functioning member of society who – he shuffled in place, the linoleum cold against the soles of his feet – who owned shoes.

“Come on, Cas. Come back to my place, I’m making burgers. Guaranteed to trump cereal any day of the week.” Dean offered, beginning to walk down the aisle and obviously expecting Cas to follow if the little fingers of smoke that were poking at his chest were any indication.

“Oh…” Cas realized he had just been invited back to Dean’s house. The waiter who he had been borderline stalking for a week now had just invited him back to his apartment.

For dinner.

And Cas wasn’t wearing shoes.

“…kay.” He finally finished, unable to watch when the puff of air giddily somersaulted in front of his face, glad for the millionth time that he was the only one who could see these hallucinations.

“Atta boy.” Dean said.

xXx

Dean’s apartment was only a short walk from the coffee shop, and only a short walk from Castiel’s house. It was a one person flat, surprisingly tidy, and absolutely… well, _Dean._

It appeared to be comprised of about three rooms, the main one being used as a dining room-slash-bedroom-slash-lounge room.

Cas did his best to studiously ignore the bed in the corner of the room, the discarded sweat pants that were draped across the pillow, the underpants – oh Jesus – the lube on the bedside table.

He concentrated on other things instead, the half empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, the mismatched couches that looked impossibly comfortable, the box set of Doctor Sexy hidden under a denim jacket next to the functional television.

Dean walked through a doorway to what was presumably the kitchen, and Cas followed obediently, clasping shopping bags in his hands and helping Dean to unload them onto the counter.

“So, not much of a cook, huh?” Dean asked,

“Not so much.” Cas agreed, nodding. They had kept up conversation on the walk over, the smoke doing peculiar things to Cas’ basic motor functions and making him wonder if he could logically get high off of his own hallucination.

It certainly felt like it.

“Oh well, I’ll look after you.” Dean shot him a wink and busied himself with dinner, eventually shooing Cas out of the kitchen and passing him the television remote.

Cas was now perched on Dean’s couch, feeling absurdly domestic as he channel surfed and cast his eyes around the room he was currently in.

Eventually he settled on a channel playing live jazz, an absurdly large man with a tiny trumpet standing in front of a band, the music dribbling out the speakers and forming the shapes of dancing people and swinging movement.

Castiel had always enjoyed listening to music, the effects of synaesthesia making it one of his favorite activities. He got lost in the swaying of the bass and tumultuous dance of the trumpet until there was a noise behind him, and he turned to see Dean watching him.

“What does it look like?” He asked lowly, his volume minimised so that the smoke left him in a barely-there wisp.

“It’s colors, mostly.” Cas confided, glancing back at the television for a moment. “They’re kind of… dancing, I guess.”

“Awesome,” Dean replied, gesturing back to the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

A suggestive hip movement from a dancing form made him scowl as he turned off the television and followed Dean to the table, helping by spreading the cutlery into the correct positions, the little clinks making tiny sparks that danced across the table, and when Dean poured each of them a glass of wine the little _glug-glug-glug_ made spots of color appear in front of his eyes.

When he sat down across from Dean, he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going through Dean’s mind at this particular point in time.

Was this a date?

Pity?

Cas opened his mouth to ask, feeling water gather on his tongue, but Dean opened his mouth first, forcing him to swallow convulsively.

“You’re not vegetarian are you?” he asked, the amused lilt in his voice making the smoke chuckle merrily over his head.

“No,” Cas said with a smile, deciding to dig into the food and have an anxiety freak out later.

“Oh man, you are in for a treat then.” Dean promised.

Cas couldn’t help but feel that in another situation, an innuendo might have been derived from that statement.

xXx

Perched languidly on the couch again, third glass of wine in his hand, the pleasant smoke of Dean’s tenor swirling above his head, stomach full of Dean’s fantastic cooking, Castiel thought he had passed on to some kind of heaven.

“-no joke, ok? He’s a grown ass man, like 6 ft 4 or something-” Dean is speaking hurriedly, randomly cutting himself off with chuckles or to take a sip of his wine, and the smoke of his words is tumbling over itself, shuddering out of his mouth in great gasps and making Cas laugh with the spectacle of it all.

“- and he is terrified of clowns. No joke. Put a guy with polka dot pants in front of him and he’ll get woozy, introduce some face paint and he’s gone.” Dean was laughing then, puffs of dark clouds joining the ones that had settled around the furniture, so it was almost like Dean and Cas had carved out their own little paradise amongst a storm.

“How about you, any brothers or sisters?” Dean asked, a contemplative question mark floating over and brushing against his cheek. Cas almost nuzzled into it, taking a sip of wine to cover the movement.

“Two, a couple of half brothers as well. Anna is my older sister, I’m closest with her, and then there’s my brother Gabe.” Cas explained, and as he spoke the mist of his words took on the smoky outlines of his siblings, and he smiled at them both in turn.

“Are they ruggedly good looking writers as well?” Dean asked, his deeper tone making the smoke more opaque. Cas was happy that his face was already flushed from alcohol, because the blush that might have stolen his features would definitely have caught Dean’s attention.

“Anna is in event management, Gabriel owns a joke shop.” Cas mumbled, subduing his grin at the compliment. “How about you, what made you come to work with Sam?”

“Ah, Sammy and I have always been close. I was passing through the town and Sam asked if I could help out at his coffee shop for a few days.”

“So you’ll be leaving soon?” Cas asked, his chest constricting slightly.

“Not as soon as I expected,” Dean answered cryptically, giving him a sidelong glance and smile.

“Good,” Cas breathed.

A moment of silence came over them, smoke clearing, leaving them in the chilled air of Dean’s apartment.

“Dessert.” Dean finally said, standing up. “That’s what we need.”

Cas stood as well, too quickly, too much alcohol in his blood to make it an entirely graceful movement.

“Woah there, champ.” Dean held out his arms to steady him, and then they were touching.

Skin to skin.

Dean’s hands on his forearms and god damn it he was so warm and Cas hadn’t really touched anyone since Meg had left last year and Dean was so fucking beautiful, and when he let out a throaty chuckle the puffs of air caught in his hair and Cas lifted a hand to brush them free, only to remember that they weren’t real.

What was real was Dean’s confused expression, something like awe on his face,

“What did you see?” he asked, his voice was more quiet and Cas laughed, lifting a hand to wave it through the smoke that had been prompted by the words.

“Smoke, smoke, smoke.” Cas said drunkenly, grinning when Dean laughed more and then swatting at the extra smoke that was puffing all around them.

“You’re really something, you know that?” Dean smiled and ran his thumb over Cas’ cheekbone, effectively stilling him. “When I read your book I always imagined what the author would look like and, I gotta say, this is not what I envisaged.” Dean dropped his hand to tug lightly at Cas’ shirt, and it made him overbalance slightly.

“Sorry I didn’t meet your expectations, Dean.” Cas said, a little sadly. That, for some reason, made Dean laugh heartily, and he was so close that Cas couldn’t breathe in without tasting that whiskey and tobacco smell of him.

“I meant that I didn’t picture the writer of those books to be a freaking,” Dean apparently was at a loss for words and resorted to gesturing to parts of him. “Sex hair, blue eyes, jaw bone that could cut a guy,” he named, laughing a little when the smoke stuttered out of him and brushed against his hair and then his jaw, cupping his face.

Cas tilted instinctively, avoiding the intimate touch of the smoke, only to find he had tilted his head straight up into Dean’s personal space.

The interpretation of that move may have been open, and later Dean would argue that Cas had all but _lunged_ at his mouth.

As it was, it took Cas completely by surprise when Dean gave a kind of half amused, half consenting smile and pressed his lips against the dry mouth that was parted for him.

Cas groaned softly, mist spilling out the sides of where their mouths were joined, hands clasping into the biceps of Dean’s shirt when he began licking methodically into his mouth, lapping against his tongue, suddenly dominating his space and filling it with this red wine taste, with this oil and smoke smell, with Dean’s hard body pressed against his and _god_ it felt _so good._

“Dean,” Cas whimpered when his mouth was suddenly empty, water spilling out over his chin at the exhalation when Dean nipped against his jaw and then down his neck, leaving little kitten licks all down the column of his throat and then biting at his collar bone.

“Cas,” Dean replied, bringing their mouths back together, breathing smoke into him until it filled his lungs, until his whole body was comprised of it, until it made Castiel absolutely certain that mere oxygen would never, ever, satisfy him.

Dean was lazily thrusting his tongue into Cas’ mouth, and Cas was unashamedly, drunkenly, moving his hips in time with the movement. His cock was semi hard, slow to rise due to the slur of wine, and when he brushed his hip against Dean’s jeans he felt the outline of Dean’s own arousal.

It was a heady feeling, knowing Dean was aroused because of him, somehow making him feel more high than the wine and the smoke combined.

“Bed,” Dean suggested, nipping at his ear.

“Mmm,” Cas agreed, water spilling over his lips.

It was a push-pull of movement then, both men unwilling to separate their lips to make it through the obstacle course of the room, Cas occasionally moving around the nonexistent hallucinations of their grunts and groans that had tumbled to the floor and created formless shapes.

When they made it to the bed, Cas was the first on his back. Dean was standing over him, one hand tracing over his knee, staring down at him with wide eyes.

“Is this ok?” He asked tentatively, and the smoke stroked cautiously against the inside of his thigh.

“The kissing is good, the other stuff that may come from kissing is good, the standing over me whilst still wearing a shirt?” Cas raised his eyebrows, blowing away the little puffs of mist that had collected in front of his face. “Not so ok.”

Dean grinned and reached over his head, tugging the t-shirt off. Cas had a few moments to gape and _for the holy shit what did I do to deserve this_ thought to flit through his mind, but then Dean was on top of him, covering his body with impeccable warmth and soft skin and Cas tilted his head back and groaned when the length of Dean’s cock rubbed against his own.

“Responsive, aren’t we?” Dean chuckled and moved his lips back to Cas’ neck, sucking and nibbling and then pulling at his shirt. Cas obligingly lifted his arms, cursing the moments they weren’t connected and then huffing out a pleasured sigh when he felt Dean’s bare skin against his own.

Dean was still kissing him, rubbing his tongue and sucking at his lips, teeth teasing the skin. Cas rocked his hips, pulled Dean closer and left nail imprints against his ribs.

“Fuck me,” Cas whispered, and it was the alcohol and the proximity talking entirely, because Castiel had never said _fuck me_ before in his life. The words rose slowly, like the exhalation of a cigarette, and Dean made this needy kind of sound that exited him in a stream of dark smoke.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Cas, _yes.”_

Hands were at the elastic of his sweat pants and _how was he self conscious of these pants when they allowed things like this to happen,_ like the push and tug motion of his cock suddenly being free, and suddenly being within Dean’s grasp and suddenly-

“Oh,” Cas whimpered when that warm hand closed around hard flesh, Dean pumping him slowly, finger dipping into the slit where precum hand collected and then continuing to stroke.

Cas fumbled at Dean’s jeans, pawing at the button and trying to convey _off,_ the annoyed noises that escaped him also tripping over the openings to his pants.

Dean, sweet, wonderful, Dean, managed to get the button undone and then Cas was pulling down his pants and boxers, and there was a slow nudge of the head of Dean’s cock against his and Cas groaned in a deep, shuddering breath that swirled around them both.

Dean was moving away from him, and Cas’ disappointed exhalation manifested in fingers that pulled at Dean, urging him back to the bed, and Dean let out a low chuckle as if he could feel them pressing urgently against his skin.

“Lube, Cas. I’m getting lube.”

“You’re wonderful.”

Dean settled between his legs and grinned lazily in return, planting a slow kiss to sealed lips before moving down his body, the urgency gone, both of them content to take this slowly and revel in the feeling of Dean pressing fingers to his collar bones, then his hip bones, then pressing his legs apart and finding comfort between his spread thighs.

He drizzled lube across his fingers, moving unhurriedly, keeping the tube nearby. He dropped his face then, pressing a chaste kiss to his hipbone as fingers probed the globes of his ass, eventually locating the furl and shifting, pushing, filling.

Cas lifted his hips and Dean pressed in further, slipping one finger in entirely before pulling it back out and adding a second. He was peppering kisses against Cas’ abdomen, occasionally lapping the precum from the tip of his cock or biting marks onto his thighs, all the while keeping the rhythm of his fingers inside him, pushing and stretching, adding a third when encouraging moans from Cas permitted it.

“God, you’re so tight.” Dean moaned, smoke skitting across Cas’ chest, the pace of fingers inside of him picking up. The mood shifted again, back to the abstract feeling of want, and then Cas was driving his hips down to meet the thrusts of Dean’s fingers, a litany of curse words falling from his lips manifesting in dribbles of water that poured over his chest and soaked the bed sheets beneath him.

“Dean, need-” Cas’ half formed words were being broken off by the choking smoke of Dean’s groans.

“I know,” Dean replied, leaning forward to breathe that heady smoke straight into his mouth, and Cas whimpered at the onslaught.

He felt the fingers leave him, the blunt head of Dean’s cock at his entrance, and he rolled his hips to accept the intrusion, gasping out a moan.

“Easy, Cas.” Dean said carefully, moving his arms to hook under Cas’ knees, pulling them up to improve the angle.

“More,” Cas replied, capturing Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and fitting the heels of his feet to the small of Dean’s back, pulling him in until Dean was entirely sheathed inside the warm channel, swearing softly under his breath.

“God, you’re going to kill me.” Dean said, gasping when Cas clenched around him. “Not going to last,” he added.

“Neither,” Cas whispered, biting his lip again. “Move.”

The command had Dean pulsing forwards and then drawing back, the flared tip of his cock dragging across Cas’ prostate and making him groan lowly, smoke a steady stream between them, the faint lightness of Cas’ almost completely choked by the dark flow of Dean’s.

“Cas, God.” Dean was saying so many things, beautiful things that made the smoke writhe around him, caressing his cheeks and sliding down his body in thick licks.

Pleasure was building inside of him, he could hear the wet sound of Dean entering him and it was prompting flashes of color in front of his eyes, combined with the twining smoke and the pressure on his prostate, he felt as though he might be able to come untouched.

That thought was useless, it appeared, because then a large, warm hand was covering his aching cock and pumping with maddeningly slow strokes.

“Dean, fuck, I’m not going to- Dean.” Cas was rambling now, caught between thrusting down onto Dean’s cock or upwards into the warmth of his hand that was slick with his own precum.

“Just like that Cas,” Dean was mumbling, cooing slightly, thrusting in an unerring rhythm that made Cas’ eyes roll.

It was building inside of him, like a crescendo, like a wave about to crash.

A choked ‘Dean’ managed to escape him before he tipped over the edge, come escaping him and painting his chest as he rode out his orgasm, feeling Dean shudder above him and raising his eyes in time to see his blissed out expression.

His mouth opened in a wide ‘o’, and he let out a shuddering moan that escaped him like a living thing, black smoke curling out of his mouth in waves and waves until he was emptied, and he crumpled above Castiel, bracing elbows on either side of his face.

Cas grinned up at him.

“Hi,” Dean breathed, a little puff of grey smoke.

“Hi,” Cas replied, puff of white joining the grey and floating away.

Cas felt like he could do the same.

Dean rolled to the side of him, legs still entwined, reaching for tissues and cleaning both of them off in strong, sure strokes.

“What did it look like?” Dean asked offhandedly, making Cas frown. Dean noted his expression and laughed. “During … y’know. What did the sounds look like?”

“Alive,” Cas said, pondering. “Writhing… touching. Kind of insane, actually.”

Dean laughed, a low rumbling laugh that seemed to reverberate in Cas’ stomach. He was nuzzling into Cas’ shoulder, one hand draping across his waist.

“Stay,” he whispered, a little curl of smoke that wove into Cas’ hair.

“Ok,” Cas replied, not moving from where he was laid out on his back, pressing his cheek to the top of Dean’s head. “You should, too.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked, his voice sleep heavy.

“Stay.” Cas explained, closing his eyes, feeling a little bit of soreness seep in to his thighs. “In town. You should just…” Cas breathed out, wondering what was possessing him to say these things out loud. “Stay.”

Dean didn’t stir, just smiled against his skin and whispered one word that melted against his chest.

“Ok.”

“Ok.” Cas repeated. “Good.”

“Go to sleep, Cas.” Dean muttered. Cas smiled, breathing in the whiskey smell of him and sinking further into the sheets.

“Ok.”

**Author's Note:**

> Finito, my friends. That is a motherfucking one shot about a condition I know nothing about combined with gratuitous gay sex. Wooh. Yes. Ok. Thank you for reading! Ok. Yes. Excellent.


End file.
